Be careful what you wish for!
by KatAztropheE-d'-nutCasE
Summary: France would give everything to see Iggy smile. Just once. Big mistake. England2p! and France D. Character death. Gore. Blood. D
1. Chapter 1

**Hello there, I'm making another story based from a nightmare. I think it'll fit in Hetalia though. I do not own Hetalia, all I own is this story. XD. I ship FrUk by the way... and RoChu, PruHun, SuFin, Asakiku and Spuk =D. Anyways, hope this'll get much attention compared to my other stories... **

**Happy Reading...MABUHAY!**

"You bastard! What the bloody hell are you doing here?!", England fumed, his brows thickened from heavy knitting. He wore the usual frown that felt like mandatory for him. Yet, France found this cute.

"Mon Ami, why are you always in a bad mood? I brought wine", France grinned, his face beaming up but only annoying England more. "It's three in the morning, frog! What did you expect?", England pitched. To emphasize his point, he shoved his alarm clock on France's face.

The real reason was; France got kicked out of the woman's house, whom he's sleeping with. It was because of Spain and Prussia's voicemail: 'How'd this one go? She like a whore you said she was? Was she the sister you had sex with the last time we're on London?'.

"Well, there's a reason but it's hard to explain", France scratched his head. He was getting nowhere with England's foul mood. Hesitating, he let the French bastard in. It would be bad for his gentleman appearance if he let this frog rot outside.

"Thanks to you, I don't feel sleepy anymore", England grumbled. France smiled sweetly, "Let's drink then", raising the wine bottle over his head. "Chateau Margaux, one of the finest in the world. Be glad I'm letting you drink expensive bottles". England merely waved his hand, "All the same for me, wine-loving bastard". France just shrugged.

After a minute or two, France returned with burgundy glasses filled with fair amount of alcohol. England raised one and gulped it all on one tilt. "You know, that's the reason why you get drunk easily", France inquired, but England ignored him and began to refill his glass with more than it should've.

After a few glasses later...

"Hey France, turn off the lights, my head's hurting", England slurred, he kept talking to the other direction. France, partly drunk, would fix England's face on his side, "Right here, Angleterre, and I can't turn it off. That's sunlight". England nodded and laughed vividly that France thought he'd go blind. "It'd be better if you always smile, you know? I wish that you were more of a jolly person than this anti-social bastard", France smiled as he yawned. "I'm going to sleep, bonne nuit", France curled up on the leftover space of the couch and slept.

Wild clattering woke him up from his short sleep.

As he opened his eyes, he was surprised by a wide grin that made him shiver down his spine. "Good morning mate, slept well?", came from a rather jolly England. This England has strawberry blonde hair, clear blue eyes and the same old thick brows. What really scared him is the bright smile, with chilly after effects.

"Not really, where'd the noise came from?", France croaked, stretching his limbs that cramped. "I made cupcakes", he giggled and went off to retrieve his fresh batch. France gulped. He once tasted England's weapon of mass destruction aka scones and it gave him a stomach ache that lasted for a week. And he only ate one.

The happy England came back, shattering France's horrifying image of England's cupcakes. It looked delicious and cute, which was disbelieving. "You sure you made this?". England nodded with a huge smile. "Sure?", France still wasn't convinced. "I am positive", came England's reply with a bone chilling smile and raising a kitchen knife in one hand.

"Arthur, you're freaking me out", France shakily took a bunny shaped cupcake from the tray.

"Who's Arthur? I'm Oliver. Eat", England's invitation sounded like a sweet deadly threat.

France took a bite. "It tastes good", he smiled. "Great", England smiled wider now.

Bite after bite, England's eerie smile got bigger. Francis was getting scared now.

England handed a teacup to him, "Tea? Sorry, I don't serve coffee". "Oui, merci".

After drinking the tea, France got sleepy, "What's...in...the...tea?".

England again smiled evilly, "Sleeping drug".

After hearing this, France collapsed on the floor. When he gained consciousness, he was in a dark room, tied onto a chair with only a dull yellow light as light source. It swung back and forth, like those in noir detective movies. It was only then he noticed another man tied up to a chair facing him. He was as still as a statue.

"Monsieur, can you hear me?", France whispered, fearing Oliver might hear him. The other man stayed silent. "No use talking to him", Oliver emerged from the darkness, his face covered in blood, his glorious strawberry blonde hair spotted red. He still smiled. France blanched.

Oliver steadied the swinging lamp. And then, he moved the other chair into France's clear view. It was the England he knew, green eyes glazed, his usual messy hair soaked in blood. His pretty head was pulled back, to show France his entire body dripping in blood. His milky neck slashed, showing the red bubbling blood oozing and a fair amount of flesh dangling.

"He didn't like my cooking. I didn't like him breathing", Oliver smiled, pulling England's untamed locks, his clear blue eyes on England's glazed lifeless emeralds.

"You're insane!", France can't hold his tongue, his fear palpable.

"Oh?", Oliver's smile faded, instead was replaced by a horrifying icy stare. In his one hand was the bloody knife which he licked like it was some sort of icing. He now sat on France's lap, balancing himself on both of the other's thighs. He inched his face to France's, "Maybe I am, mate", he smiled his icy smile.

France was dumbstruck. His words and mind froze out of fear. Oliver now placed both of his slender arms on both sides of France's shoulders. With one bloodstained hand, he opens France's mouth for a passionate French kiss. France could taste the metallic taste of blood. Arthur's blood. His tears flowed uncontrollably upon his fallen ally.

France gazed at the emotionless eyes in front of him. Oliver smiled, "Open your mouth". France followed. Oliver inserted his bloody kitchen knife, skewered France tongue that made France gave out a blood curling muffled scream. France was now choking on his own blood, praying French prayers silently on his head, begging to be spared. Olvier cut his tongue painfully, and raised it on France's eyes like it was a trophy, "Pretty huh?". He held France's tongue and waved it around. France held back a vomit that threatened to burst out of his bloody mouth.

"What's the matter? Cut out your tongue? Oh, I just did", Oliver laughed sweetly. "What to cut off next?", Oliver trailed his bloody knife downwards, pointing it on France's crotch. Oliver grinned wider and France shook his head and screamed intangible words, gurgling his own blood, eyes widening with horror.

"Speak clearly mate, that's rather, undignified", Oliver smiled as he raised the blade and sharply hurled it downwards. France screamed.

"Dammit you frog! Wake up!".

France jolt awake, his entire body soaked in sweat. England's face wore the same scowl he always wore, "It's almost noon and you're screaming so loud I can barely hear my own thoughts". "Arthur! Is that you?", France clasped his face, examining it and his neck. Nothing.

"Bloody twat! Of course it's me, are you still drunk Francis?", England pulled away and France heaved a relieved sigh. "Angleterre, mind if I use the bathroom?".

"Down the hall, turn left, the door on the hallway's end", England snapped, returning to his cooking, cursing when he burnt it again.

France got up and went towards the bathroom, feeling happy that it was just a silly nightmare. There was only one Angleterre, and it was the mass-producing deadly scone maker England he knew. The man who'd smile when he sees his friends, the faeries and his picture with the baby America.

He splashed his face when he got to the bathroom. He was relieved and fully awake. He splashed again. This time, his heart skipped a beat. He knew he was awake but when he raised his head to look at himself on the mirror. He paled.

"Hello, mate", Oliver smiled icily.

**I'll post this as complete, but there's actually a continuation. I'll only post that when this story receives enough support. =)**

**Cheerio, from Oliver Kirkland. =)**


	2. Chapter 2

'**Ello mates, Katz here, I think it's about time I release the kraken *chuckles*, Since my story was a lil' bit supported, I'm going to post this so you'll feel good XD. By the way, I forgot to mention I also ship DenNor and NorIce :D...**

**Read this with PSYCHO by SOD in the background :D**

**Again, MABUHAY!**

"You shouldn't be here!", France stared back in disbelief, now eyeing the demon in his nightmare. He was promised that he wasn't supposed to be real. France felt all his colors drained from his face, sweat rolling down.

"You want me here, and I'm that nice to grant your wish", Oliver smiled his Cheshire-like smile, morphing his face into something scary. He held the frozen France with his cold fingers and gazed into France's darker blues. "Aren't you supposed to be happy that your dream came true?", Oliver grinned while France stared, rooted on the floor from fear.

He was dead real. The hands told him, the cold white hands that felt like piercing his cheeks. Oliver was only an inch away from France's face and he could breathe in Oliver's sugary scent. "Where were we?", Oliver whispered in his ear, France's scream was stuck in his throat, his eyes tear up. He could feel the cold knife on his neck, its tip dancing on his skin.

"Fuck you", France whispered and this didn't please Oliver. "That is such a filthy word, how rude!", Oliver frowned, his goody-good looks shrivelled up into a frown. Oliver lifted his knife but stopped midway when a loud knock was heard. "Bloody frog! Are you doing your business there? I just cleaned that up, you blood twat! Get your arse out of there or I'll shoot you with my bloody gun!", England's voice was muffled by the door. Oliver looked disgusted and disappeared into thin air, but mouthed 'This isn't over yet'.

France blanched and managed to breathe. He forgot he held on to it since he saw Oliver's face. He opened the door and saw England with his gun, "About time you git, were you masturbating? That bathroom is spick-and-span, if I saw one drop of your bloody cum, I'll make you lick the bloody floor". France was too shaken to come up with a reply and this worried England, "Are you okay?".

"Yes", he whispered, but England didn't buy it. He pulled France to a chair, gave him water and made him drink it. France was still shaking from fear, England was getting worried, "What's wrong? Why are you shaking?". France made a small smile and managed to lighten up the mood, "I'm going to eat your cooking, that's scary".

England frowned, tossed his chair back and went to the kitchen to plate his cooked meals. He retrieved the cigarette he left in the ashtray when he threatened France. "You're eating this whether you like it or not, it's such a waste", England came back with charcoaled entities that he called food. France had to squint to identify it. It was a full English breakfast.

England puffed a smoke before he continued, "So, what were you dreaming about? You screamed an awful lot in your sleep". France opened his mouth, but didn't say anything. England was still disturbed of this silence and he wasn't buying anymore shit France will say. "What really happened? I maybe kicking you in the arse most of the time, but well, you still raised me. I-It's not like I care or anything, I don't want to owe you things. Get it staright!", England stumbled over his words and hid his bright red face with a newspaper he was reading.

"Angleterre, I dreamt of your terrible cuisine", France lied.

"You want me to shoot you?", England snapped.

"It's the truth".

"It's a lie. A very hurtful lie, at that. Tell me wine-loving beardy, or I'll rip your hair out strand by strand", England threatened, he knew there's something wrong. His gut was kicking inside of him, telling him there's a possible danger coming. He was never wrong. He ignored his gut once and it cost him America, now he won't do the same mistake twice. France decided to tell Arthur, hoping it wouldn't burden him that much.

He eyed Arthur and opened his mouth, ready to tell his story but there was loud banging on the second floor that caught Arthur's attention. "Blasted mice, I'll get to you later, after I get rid of those nuisance", England rose from his seat, his cigarette still smoking in his lips. But then, England felt a ridiculous urge to bring his shotgun. Laughable, he thought.

He stopped by his pantry to retrieve his shotgun. Yes, he keeps guns and voodoo stuff in his pantry. England preferred it that way. Deep inside his thoughts, he knew those weren't mice. He lied just not to panic France than he already is. Silently, he made way to the second room, his storage room that he locked because he couldn't bear the pain looking at America's memories. Thud. The sound clearly came from his storage room.

Which was impossible since he threw away the only key in the Atlantic Ocean.

England felt cold sweat rolled by his spine, his hands cold. There was no sign of forced entry, and he remembered well that that room had no windows. He gulped. Silent as ever, he plastered his ear by the door, waiting for a sound. Faint footsteps echoed inside, and England was shaking. "Don't just listen there, join me", a muffled voice stated. England could even hear the psychotic smile as he said it. "Who the fuck are you? How'd you get inside there?!", England snapped, readying his gun. He threw himself back when he heard the knob ticking to open. England pointed the gun at the door, getting ready to shoot the bastard. When the door opened, he gaped, stared shock at what he saw.

The man looked like him. Freakishly exactly like him, except for the strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes and colourful fashion. Stained with blood. England gawked at him, his shotgun at ease. "Come in, I made cupcakes", Oliver sang but England didn't respond. Oliver neared him, his face mere inches away from him. England could smell the pepperminty breath his look alike breathed.

"You don't smile much, no? And you curse an awful lot!", Oliver scolded, his white hands on Arthur's jaw, clenched into a surprising strong grip. "You looked like my pansy version. I never knew I had one", Arthur mocked, his smile menacing. Oliver was not impressed, "You are very rude mister, I'm Oliver and no one else".

Arthur grinned. A grin that he usually wore when he pillaged the seven seas. A grin of murder.

"What's the matter? Will you smack me in the arse like some governess?", Arthur thwarted, his emerald eyes going for the kill. Oliver's icy blue ones didn't back down. They stared at each other for a long dragging minute. Arthur finally had his fill and gutted the pansy alike in front of him. Oliver shrivelled up, letting go of Arthur's jaw. Both moved swiftly, fighting over the shotgun that fell. Arthur palmed Oliver's disturbingly sweet face. He was shaking. He didn't notice that he shook the entire time. His heart throbbed in his chest. This was a moment of life or death.

Oliver yanked his messy blonde hair, "No guns in a tea party, Arthur". Arthur's heart skipped a beat. This man knows him. Arthur, with every ounce of strength he have, stretched his arms painfully, taking hold of the shotgun. He kicked Oliver off of him, and pointed the gun at his face, sweat rolling uncontrollably from his brow. He clicked the gun to fire directly at Oliver's grinning face, shattering his face into million bits.

Arthur looked at the headless carcass in front of him, shivers crawling uncontrollably up and down his spine. He breathed in, sucking in all the air he could manage, then exhaled. He turned away, wiping off the blood that splattered over his face with a white handkerchief.

He was about to go down and have breakfast, but was halted by a strong grip on his ankle. His heart forgot to beat. His face drained completely of its color and his hands gone cold and rigid over his shotgun. He gulped and looked down. The same white bloody hand on his ankle. His stomach churned.

"This is not over yet, mate", Oliver chirped, despite half of his face was missing.

**Okay, there's actually a continuation. *Yes, I'm partly Oliver**chuckles* Same as the other one...XD. The continuation will be posted if there'll be support XD. No writer writes for the air ya know. I need to know if this story is worth continuing. :D**

**PLEASE COMMENT! IT REALLY INSPIRES ME TO WRITE MORE...AND UPDATE EARLY.**

**Cheerio, Oliver Kirkland**


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